Resigned to go but still pushing the envelope big time, in his patented small-minded way.

Notes In Passing.

At the last possible moment, as he counts down the hours,
Before dawn arrives and he leaves with red downcast face
With twitchy fingers, with the last grasp of his fading powers
Don leaves Joe a post-it, writ with ill and begrudging grace.

The first word he's addressed to Joe not meant to mislead,
Nevertheless the closest thing Don could get to a farewell note,
Not a welcome nor a final word, Don refuses to concede,
Simply 'Good luck, Joe.' Don confirms 'and that's all I wrote.'

It's amazing Joe didn't reach for a flippin' Zippo and burn it,
Or rip it, rend, rive or tear it rather than cooly and calmly read it,
But, with a wry smile, add his footnote, sign it, seal it and return it;
'Don, I can't accept you wishing me luck, you're sure gonna need it.'

‘Deer Joe- gude luk – good luck.’



(Let’s hope there’s no more to be said on the misdirected unwrapped parcel of wholesale lies that is Don now that Trump, Inc. has been withdrawn from public consumption .) 


Off goes Don; Gone, but still rattling on.

Snakes On A Plane.

His final flight is ready to take off,
The ex-President is set to snake off,
His eyes look out, dark, cold, reptilian,
Farewell, you contemptible low con man.

Fly away to your welcome in Mar-A-Lago,
Fly,  fly off, off to to your hidey-hole you go,
Go to ground, wait for the storm to pass...
Natural, for an old snake in the grass.

A man is known by the company he's among,
So visitors, cock an ear for a f-f-forked tongue,
Hisss twisted words hark back to original sin,
And he sheds friends as he does his thin skin.

So Don, slip out and lay back 'neath the Florida sun,
Relax, uncoil, your long retirement has just begun,
Or scale back the sun bed regime, let down your hair
Then slither under a rock and stay- at home- there.

‘Warning- Contains Lingering Traces Of Venemous Vitriol.’


Winter brings a sad and moving tale. Hey, but at least now we’re getting somewhere.

Property Deal.

They talked of changes in the neighbourhood...
Still, its breathtaking how swift it's come about,
That unwelcome squatter hung in as long as he could
But patience has run its course, he's been turfed out.

The last big ass U-Haul truck idles at the back door,
All the furnishings of House and Office packed away,
One last look, a heavy sigh echoes round the empty floor,
It's a Sad day being told you've overstayed your stay.

He'd done his very worst to extend his lease,
He'd searched for an escape clause to no avail ,
He'd not leave, not without forever saying his piece;
Threaten him with debtors prison, he won't bail.

Yet more misdemeanors to add to his damning list;
Sending rude messages, annoying parties all night long,
Breaches of the peace, refusals to cease and desist,
Ignoring calls to tone down what just sounds wrong.

The dumb dude simply will not see sense 
So his crew of party pals quietly dwindled,
Facebook 'friends' deleted his comments-
Too many to repeat claims he's been swindled.

But this guy's used to acting with reckless impunity,
So now to be told  by sumbitch he'd backed as a friend
That your excesses upset the best of the community,
'You and your terrible properties have been condemned.'

It's bad enough being told you just must leave-
Oh, the ignominy of a common squalid eviction,
Once secure, at home, going now is too hard to believe -
And threatened with criminal trespass, with real conviction.

The prime location of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Cannot be cheaply bought, it can merely be rented;
Thence after four years there comes a tenancy review,
And friends and neighbours have become discontented.

He's proved he's not the best of Housekeepers,
This whole historic property he's badly mismanaged,
Unfinished walls, the surrounds ass-deep in creepers,
Our once firm foundations cracked and damaged.

So wave cheery-bye to the ex-President,
He's off to his latest guilt-edged address,
Now let's welcome in a better-suited resident
And hope he cleans up that Losers! unholy mess.


Phil Spector; Time to lay down his last track.

The Hit Man Goeth.

It's the final sweet release for flaky Phil Spector,
Gun enthusiast and mad  genius musical director,
Hit after hit till, finally, one fine day
Fatefully and fatally he blew it all away;
Phil, put the safety on when you gun play.

Perfect within his 'wall of sound' but mentally unsound,
The slow slide from Top of the Pops to deep Underground,
Soft the muffled farewell bell rang,
A token sob from the mournful old gang;
Gone out with a whimper, not a bang.

(As is all too obvious, I'm a fan of his music, not the man.)
credit; Murray Webb.


At last, the long awaited cure for the dreaded affliction of Foot to Mouth disease.

Hush a Bye Bye/ Potus Gets The Message.

First, my electoral defeat-
That left me a tad downbeat,
Struck dumb by shock, sad to say,
'Twas indeed a dark blue/grey day...
But now I had grievous cause to bleat
About the GreatesT ever electoral cheat!

Lies, all lies, but lies I'll happily repeat,
Easily flicked out by a simple tweet,
But now I read, with deep dismay
They took my tweet voice away!
Where fantasy and fable meet!
Now my misery is complete.

‘Not Twitter! No, not that! Ach, the inhumanity!”

Ding a ling goes the phone; Who’s gonna take it?

Unwelcome Call.

Donald had Brad Raffensperger dangling on the line,
Demanding the ashen Secretary of State do the divine,
'Conjure those non-existent votes and make 'em mine,'
Even for Brad this is beyond the pale, way over the line.

Brad looks at the phone with a disbelieving look,
Don demands another term, by hook or by crook,
Don's delusion of grandeur look clearly text-book,
You can't find nuttin' no matter how hard you look.

Fact is, Don believes petty illegalities are of no never mind,
Fact is, he'll blithely deceive, though theres no votes to find,
Fact is the tape shows Donald's imagination runs unconfined,
Fact is, no votes to be found mean Don's lost his flippin' mind.


Play time is all but over, but the tosser is still tossing his toys out of the playpen.

Mar-a-LaGoose Nursery Rhyme Time.

The clown is counting down the fading hours, his mood- none too sunny,
His spouse is confiding with her briefs, talk of divorce, acrimony- money,
He's made his tiny mind up to drag down Democratic ideals before he goes-
Pardon his bad, then he'll recast his ex-best GOP friends as his darkest foes.
‘Mitch McConnell? Brian Kemp? William Barr? I want a word.’


My unexpected unreciprocated and totally unwanted little Christmas gift; Awww, you shouldn’t have!

Claustrophobic Christmas.

We two stood together apart for five minutes or more,
Waiting on an (American) elevator or (British) lift,
No way was I considering walking up to the top floor;
That exercise in futility received lightning short shrift.

Finally Otis arrived, and I stepped towards the door
Only to be, first, left standing, secondly, left miffed
As she swept past me, and with raised red painted claw
Jabbed her button first, cementing our yawning social rift.

She looked down upon the funky grungy garb I wore,
This high-end consumer looked to be no fan of my thrift,
Lifting a perfectly plucked eyebrow at this walking eyesore,
Pointedly tilted up her snooty aristocratic nose as if I whiffed.

Soon an unpleasant presence appeared neither could ignore,
Stuck in the close confines I retchedly gagged while she sniffed
Before showily reaching into her Gucci and spritzing more Dior,
But she wouldn't catch my watering eye, if  you catch my drift.


Hey Don, the final tally is officially finally in… would you believe?

Out For The Count.

When Don won bigly in twenty sixteen
He swelled up with Ginormous pride,
Obviously his Huuuuuge win had been
A Democratically devastating landslide.

After four disastrous years finally we've seen
An end to Don's wildly whoopsy inducing ride,
Don's Crazy Clown Train Wreck's left US lookin' green,
But dark days are over now we can see Don's back side. 

‘Oh yeah, I’m a scarily crazy one.’



So, Rudy, Don’s good friend; Could your timing be more sickening?

A Bad Sad Case.

Rudy Giuliani has really really tried
To turn this election to the Dark Side.

Rudy G's dredged up all the dirty tricks,
He's tossed a heap of hogwash into the mix,
He's awash with gesticulations and facial tics,
He's tried High courts, base appeals, but nothing sticks,
As the year wends his cracked dry lips he nervously licks,
Looking at his briefs he's sweating bullets and shitting bricks.

Every lousy case he brought has been DENIED,
Now Rudy's as ruddy-faced as an expectant bride.

His fart fatuous claims come fast and thick,
The sweat sluicing off his pate, like an oil slick,
Which makes sense, since Rudy is obviously sick;
His eyes behold the fevered gleam of a raving lunatic,
Yet the most unpardonable Republican since Tricky Dick
Needs immunity well into into next year- or another little prick.

‘So, that’s a mask, is it? Interesting.’